you and i can write the end
by comebackdean
Summary: she thought she wrote the end of their story when she said goodbye in the recording studio that night, but she's oh so wrong. instead, they would write the end together, and it would be a happy one {sadie stone and luke wheeler, slow burn}


_a/n: this is for the best nashie a girl could ask for, mary, who has become one of my best friends. we both are missing sadie stone hardcore and thought the shipping "drive by" the writers gave us of her and luke, was so cruel, so i'm writing this for her. this wasn't supposed to be the epic it became, honestly, but i couldn't stop and here we are, slow burn, lots of slow burn but i promise the end result is worth it._

* * *

 **~*~you and i can even write the end~*~**

 **pairing: luke wheeler/sadie stone**

 **summary: she thought she wrote the end of their story when she said goodbye in the recording studio that night, but she's oh so wrong. instead, they would write the end together, and it would be a happy one**

 **rating: m**

* * *

It's still there, long after he's left the studio, _bergamot and vanilla,_ lingering on the collar of his starch pressed denim shirt, seeping past the fabric and into his skin. It's like she's still _there_ , pressed against him, the softness of her curves still able to be felt, like, if he reaches out he can _touch_.

But he can't touch. Because she _isn't_ there.

All that's there, apart from her scent, is the hollow whisper of her words; still ringing in his ears.

 _It does make me feel better to know that there are good men in this world._

 _I just wish I'd known that sooner._

 _Goodbye, Luke._

That Virginia twang curling around the base of his skull. The sad rhythm of her words matching the slow beat of his heart in his chest. The faint smack of lips against his cheek. How she pulled back, sage eyes looking like stained glass, lips quivering and a quick, _you take care of yourself_ , before he can reach to stop her.

Part of him wants to raise hell _and_ cain at the ranch like he did after Rayna called off the wedding. But quickly he remembers Colt seeing him stumbling through the kitchen wrapped around a blonde old enough to be his just-started-college sister, and the _utter_ disappointment in his eyes and the biting tone, "Sage gets up in the middle of the night for water, you know."

A shiver races from head to toe, turning his bones to ice, seizing underneath his veins, and he can't. He can't – no, he _won't_ have his son look at him like that again. Ever.

* * *

 _Was that a we can't do whatever this is goodbye? Cause it sounded a lot like I'm leavin' town goodbye._

That damn east Texas drawl. It won't leave her alone. Once upon a time she was haunted by a gruff Virginia growl, and honestly, it was easier for her to tuck that away, bury it deep where no one would ever find it. But _that_ east Texas drawl... no, it won't _go away_.

The bright lights of Nashville have faded, nothing more than a dull glow in the recesses of her mind. Barely visible. _He_ is crystal clear. Almost as if, when she opens her eyes, he'll be _right there_. Smelling of worn leather with a tooth pick between tongue and cheek. He'll look like he did the night at the diner, when they were hushed tones and bursts of laughter and genuine smiles. The blue of his eyes piercing her heart.

Not like he did in the studio. Not bewildered and blindsided. Reaching for her, but she's too quick, because she knows if he captures her wrist, he'll convince her to stay. Just one squeeze of her hand, just those blue eyes warming like the edges of a flame and that _east texas drawl_ , "Sadie," wrapping her jacket tighter around herself, she can't stop wishing for his arms.

 _It's both._

Her own shaky tone ringing in her ears as she reaches the familiar porch of her childhood home. Her heart pounds heavy and thick and she remembers – briefly – when it was light as air, his calloused hand, closing around hers, fingers lacing through hers, and his bark of laughter from that night in the diner, washes over her.

Like he's behind her. Like one of his large hands easily curls around her waist, pushing her forward.

Closing her eyes, before she knocks, she _swears_ the heady scent of leather _is_ there and _not_ the brightness of sunflowers.

* * *

Jade St. John. International pop sensation. Grammy Award Winner. Sex symbol. And she _wants_ him.

All flirty glances under heavy [fake] lashes. Painted lips always curled in a come-hither angle. Finger crooked just so, begging him to follow, to lay her down. Telling him – low and lusty – how she used to kiss the picture of him above her bed every night before she went to bed.

And all that's there when they kiss, is nothing. Briefly, he wonders if he should talk to his doctor, but banishes the thought, instantly. He ain't _that_ old. But the taste of lipstick is bitter on his lips. Those dangerous curves any man would give their left arm to touch, just once, don't make heat simmer inside his veins. The dark velvet eyes don't grab hold, even though they're pleading – silently – for his fingers to dive into waterfall of perfect corkscrew raven curls, drawing her back into a heated kiss.

All of Jade fades away, after a shocking let down – at least from her point of view – and as his eyes close, head hitting the pillow, there's the fresh face of Sadie Stone, clear as day behind his lids. Bergamot and vanilla take hold, like, she's _there_.

No heavy lashes for her sage eyes to hide behind. No painted, bitter lipstick hiding the shape of her soft posy lips. Curves – not insane or dangerous – but _real_ and soft, accented perfectly by a tiny waist he knows would fit perfectly into the hold of his hands. Natural chestnut waves falling around slim shoulders.

A flush – warm and rosy – colors high cheekbones and he'd bet his life the steamy pant of his name, _"Luke,"_ is as real as the children sleeping in the rooms across from his own.

Even though, in his heart, he knows the truth; the cold, bitter truth – hitting him in the face, harsh and quick, not unlike Deacon's sucker punch months before – that there is no steamy pant of his name. No, he's alone in his bed, just the fleeting image of her keeping him company.

* * *

Jade St. John. International pop sensation. Grammy Award winner. Sex symbol. And she wants _Luke._

Blacksburg, Virginia maybe a world away from Nashville, Tennessee but she's not on the edge of civilization. Far from it, actually. Her parents may be old fashioned – still living on the farm that's been in her father's family, going all the way back to the Civil War – but they're not completely adverse to technology.

But, oh, does she wish they were. If they were, she wouldn't have seen every single picture of Jade draped over Luke like a cheap pair of drapes. Always standing too close, always looking at him with stars dancing in her dark velvet eyes. But if you looked close enough, behind those stars, there was _want_.

A sickening feeling curls at the base of her spine, bile coating her tongue, and fingers clenching into fists, nails digging into the skin of palms, nearly hard enough to drawl blood.

 _you could never compare, so why work yourself up into a tizzy, girl_

The same voice that kept her clinging to Pete, despite everything, rears its ugly head. And, of course, that voice is right.

How could _she_ – little Sadie Elizabeth Stone – from the mountains of Virginia compare to pop star and sex symbol _Jade St. John?_ Jade who was all dangerous curves and flirty glances and bold in her advances, never shy and not carrying half the baggage she was. Jade who sold out arena after arena. Whose voice was as renowned as Aretha and Mariah. Who was known for having men pant after her like dogs in heat.

Sighing heavily, she doesn't know why, but her eyes drift down her figure. Just on the cusp of a C cup, the internet sure as hell wouldn't wax poetic about her breasts, her stomach's soft to the touch – not the toned steel of the younger woman's – her hair's a plain chestnut brown, tumbling in subtle waves, not daring magenta or mysterious ebony. Her skin is a warm almond, not a flawless pearl. Her lips smeared with cherry chapstick, not expensive gloss or lipstick.

But as her head goes down a familiar path, suddenly it's as if her waist – not tight and trim – is being held. The familiar heat of calloused hands is there. Her waist fitting perfectly into their hold. There's the broadness of a chest, not thick and heavy with muscle, but warm and solid just in the same behind her. A roughness of a full beard glides across her cheek, the feeling bristles so real, heat blooms in the pit of her stomach.

And the rough pant of her name, " _Sadie_ ," against the thrumming pulse of her neck is so real, she'd bet this farm, _he's_ right there.

It's all gone – the heat of calloused hands, the warmth of a solid chest, beard bristles and the rough pant of her name – as soon as it appeared. Because it wasn't real. He isn't there. All that's there is her imagination, conjuring up fleeting touches and feelings that never were.

* * *

"Is your Dad okay?" That's the last thing Luke expects Maddie to ask Colt. They're in the kitchen, books spread out, pencils and pens, highlighters and sticky notes between them, and he was about to walk in and ask if they wanted him to whip up some mac and cheese. He ain't a five star chef, that's for sure, but he learned to make Mamaw Wheeler's famous mac and cheese, that was for damn sure. But the question stops him in his tracks.

"I don't know," Colt answers, shrugging nonchalantly, fingers sifting through his mop of hair. There's a pause, pursing his lips and letting out a heavy breath of air through his nose. "I thought it was cause of _you know_ , everything that went down between him and your Mom, but I don't think that's it."

"Why not?" Maddie questions, tilting her head curiously.

"After the wedding didn't happen, he went, like, _crazy._ He had this big party here and was drunk and stumbling through the kitchen with this blonde girl who was old enough to be my sister, and that's what he did after he and my Mom split up. But for a little bit, before Jade St. John was throwing herself at him," There's a warm smile curling at Colt's lips, the one he got from his mother. "He was, like, happy. He was whistling and he kept inviting that Gunnar guy over to write new music. He was at the studio late. His jacket – the leather one – Sage found it laying on the couch and said it smelled like a girl."

Luke swallowed thickly, his mind taking him back to the nights at the diner with Sadie. How they scribbled lyrics on napkins, kept the waitress – Katie, they knew her by name – refilling cup after cup of coffee. How he talked her into sharing a milkshake with him. One shake, two straws. Chocolate malt with whipped cream. Sprinkles because she shyly asked for them, all lashes hiding shimmering sage, and that's when he noticed the smattering of freckles across her nose.

So close he didn't smell burnt toast, fried eggs and the bitterness of coffee.

No, his world was bergamot and vanilla.

So real, he figured if he breathed right now, that's what would hit his nose.

"A girl? Like, he has a girlfriend?"

"Nah, not a girlfriend. But I think he met someone or something. Then she left. Sage said his jacket's never smelled like that again. Gunnar's not around as much, so he's not writing. He hasn't been at the studio for awhile. But I guess," Another nonchalant shrug. "That's cause of Will Lexington and stuff. Y'know since he's got Wheels Up Records and all. Juliette Barnes takes up a lot of his time and energy he says."

"Mom always said Juliette was a handful," Maddie giggles ruefully and Luke is struck, momentarily, by how much she sounds like Rayna. "But deep down," And there's the sixteen year old's trademark optimism. "She's a good person. I am glad," He can see her lips stretch into a smile. "That your Dad stuck by Will, though. He didn't have to and I don't think anyone else would've, but he did. I know I said some mean things after the wedding that wasn't, but your Dad's a good guy. He deserves," Soft and wistful. "To be happy."

"I think so too."

The moment, he breathes and smells bergamot and vanilla, Luke announces his presence. "Study break! It's time for some of Mamaw Wheeler's famous mac and cheese. It'll power you through those equations."

Colt sighs as Maddie laughs, hazel eyes glimmering, "It's History, Dad, not algebra."

* * *

 ** _like a small boat on the ocean/sending big waves into motion_**

The scrap of paper is still there – the words written in his surprisingly neat scrawl – in the pocket of the jeans she wore the first night they went to the diner. They were laughing – it's ringing in her ears – as she feels the worn edges of the paper against her fingertips. Heads bowed close, a real smile on her face – the first in a long time – and worn leather standing out against the dull scents of fried eggs, burnt toast and coffee.

She had wanted to take the toothpick out of his mouth. To be bold. To flirt. To get closer.

But she could only be as close as their foreheads touching. Being closer would only end with a swift kick to the gut. A hard punch to the face. Black and blue decorating her face like she was a Jackson Pollack painting.

"Are those lyrics?" Sadie nearly jumps out of her skin, her mother's warm voice in her ear. "Are you writing again?" Hopefulness is underlying the warmth, and Sadie knows if she turns, her mother's face will be aglow.

"A..." Pause, because what _was_ Luke? Was he anything? Swallowing down the want of more, she turns, offering up a tight smile. "Just stuff a friend and I wrote while we were goofin' around in a diner. It's nothin'."

"Don't seem like nothin'." Pamela Stone didn't suffer fools lightly. For as gentle a soul as she was, her hand lived up to the surname she inherited once she married Wilson, Sadie's father. "I _know_ you, Sadie Elizabeth. Just because I ain't changin' your nappies any more, don't mean I still can't put you in your place. I ain't goin' out to pasture just yet. My mind's as sharp as it ever was, and you're lyin'. That," She reaches for the scrap, but Sadie pulls it back. "Means somethin'. And it don't mean no skin off my nose, if you're lyin' to me about it, but it means a hell of a lot to yourself if you are."

"Mama..." A pitiful whine, like, she's about to stomp her foot.

"You should start writin' again. You're miserable, walkin' around her like a dang ghost. Honey," Softness creeping in as her hand lingers on her daughter's cheek. "Get out your guitar and play somethin'. Even if it's one of them Rayna Jaymes songs you lived for back when. You're only hurtin' yourself and I can't stand to see you hurtin'." The same sage eyes that stare back at Sadie, narrow into threatening slits. "You don't wanna send your Mama to an early grave, now do ya? And without grandchildren, no less!"

" _Mama_..." A warning and Pamela sighs, tucking chestnut ringlets behind an ear. "An old woman can still dream, can't she?"

And for the first time in a long time, there's a guitar in Sadie's hands.

* * *

It's a long shot, he knows, and he's always been the black hat – despite wearing the occasional white hat – but every fleeting moment they had will not leave him alone. So there he is, outside Rayna's door, desperate and clinging to invisible hope that she knows where Sadie might have ran off to.

A perfect auburn brow arches and brown sugar eyes narrow in circumspection. He doesn't blame her. They never patched things up, really, after the wedding that wasn't. After he dragged her through the mud. His jaw flexes, subconsciously, remembering Deacon's nasty right hook and the gruff, "wheels up jackass" that came after.

"You don't owe me anything," As contrite as he's ever been. "But... Whoo..." A shake of his head, taking the ballcap off to sift his fingers through his hair. "I _need_ this."

"What could you possibly need from me, Luke?"

"Any place Sadie might have run off to. Don't look at me like _that_ ," Bit out as brown sugar hardens into bitter coffee. "You might have swooped in when she was hauled off to the county jail, but you weren't there, holdin' her as her ex's dead body was coolin' at her feet, all right? That was _me_. You know she told me – the night she split – that it was good to know there were still good men in the world. She told me," A heavy sigh as blue eyes bore into coffee. "She wished she knew that sooner. There was _somethin'_ and it was real, so real I can't forget it."

"She isn't wrong," Wry smile curling at tart strawberry lips. "You are one of the good men that's still out there. Deep down." Teasing now and a weight is lifted. "Most likely she went back to her hometown, Blacksburg, Virginia. Her family's had a farm there for generations."

Luke nods, ballcap going back on his head, bending the brim before leaning over and kissing Rayna's cheek. "Don't lay that infamous Wheeler charm on too thick, now," The country queen warns. "She's still, technically, under contract with me at Highway 65."

"I wasn't goin' down there for _that_ , but you know what they say?" Blue eyes twinkling. "All's fair in love and war. Wheels Up would have quite the stable on their hands; Will, Juliette, country's best-selling male artist behind Garth Brooks and the CMA reigning Best New Artist of the Year. I like the sound of that."

"Go, before I change my mind and have my man chase you off this property. Deacon may still be recoverin' but I bet he's still got some life in that right hook."

* * *

Everything, literally, stops. Specifically, her heart, inside of her chest.

This – Luke standing outside the door of the main house on her family's farm – is too good to be true. He _looks_ too good to be true, cutting his typically handsome figure in the worn plaid shirt and well fitted jeans and ball cap covering the thickness of his wheat colored hair. Her heart comes to life again when her name, "Sadie," leaves those lips in _that east texas drawl_ , and heat curls at the base of her spine.

The toothpick is there, cornered, between tongue and cheek, begging for her fingers to remove it. They flex at her sides, wanting to dare, but holding back.

Her knees are shaking, so weak, it's a wonder she's still standing. How she is, she doesn't know. "Hey, now," Soft and there are those hands – the ones she remembers from fantasies – with her waist in their heat, and she was right; it's a perfect fit, his hold and her body. Her head spins and all she knows is the touch of his forehead against hers and the scent of worn leather, engulfing her.

"How are you here?" Somehow, being able to find words, and tears flood her eyes.

"Cause this is the real deal – this thing, between you and me – and I can't let it go, darlin'." Slipping easily from his lips, as if that's how he's always referred to her. Her heart leaps. So soft and with a lilt in the normal gruff pitch, so different than the harsh crack of a whip that 'Sadie-girl' Pete's nickname had always been. Darlin' is like a soothing balm, healing cracks in seconds that she believed would never be healed.

"How did you..." A swift shake of his head, pulling back slightly, to raise one of his hands to settle against her cheek, "Don't matter how I knew, what matters is I'm here. Now," There's those tempting lips curling into the smile that could melt a woman – even in a photograph – and she's like a knock-need schoolgirl, heart threatening to burst from her chest cavity, butterflies swirling around and heat simmering inside her veins. "Don't go runnin' this time."

"And just where," Two can play this game, suddenly feeling embolden, she does what she didn't dare before and slips the toothpick from his mouth. Her own lips curl, a little tilt of not-quite a smile, somewhere in between naughty and nice as she murmurs, clutching the front of his shirt, leaning in so their lips are centimeters apart, "Would I be runnin' to?"

Heat flashes in those pale blues, the ring around the irises, like the edges of a flame.

"You may have heard stories, darlin'," Pushing her hand away, somehow, despite his body's call to reach for her, to feel those curves. "But you'll at least have to buy me dinner first."

Sparkling. Like gems. Not dark with shadows haunting. Open and warm are those sage eyes, prettier than they have any right to be, ensnaring his heart and though she doesn't know, he surrenders. Cause there is no one else. It's too soon, way too soon, but keeping this a secret won't hurt. He'll tell her, eventually, and hopefully she'll reciprocate by giving him hers.

Laughter like warm bells and she looks like she did after they finished singing 'Can't Help My Heart' in the studio, free. Free of everything; demons, memories, a weight she could never escape, her past that kept dragging her down. And, fuck, she looked so beautiful. Here in the doorway at the main house of her family's farm. Her shiny chestnut ringlets framing the high cheekbones of her face just so. Her lips calling to him – just a hint of gloss – only enhancing their natural posy shade. Her skin glowing with warmth, but a hint of gold underneath the almond, having gotten a tan from being out in the sun.

His eyes drift from her face, arousal simmering in his veins, igniting a flame deep in his gut. There's just a hint of skin, revealed by the slope of her peasant top. It's flowing and billowing and he misses the tight v-neck shirt that's haunted him. But he knows the curves underneath. The tempting perkiness of her breasts, just enough to mold to the heft of his hands. The length of her legs revealed by the way the denim clings to them.

The view from the back, he's sure, is mouth watering.

"Time on the farm's got you lookin' real good." Low and heated, her cheeks flushing, and there's a chuckle escaping when she wags her finger, toothpick firmly between tongue and cheek, "Down, cowboy."

* * *

 ** _this is my fight song/take back my life song/prove i'm alright song_**

Harmonizing, every word perfectly on pitch, as if they've been singing together all their lives. Two pairs of eyes – sky blues and warm sage – mirroring each other, sparkling and bright, just like wide smiles that also match, the kind of wide smile that reminds someone of a child on Christmas morning; innocent and blinding.

The glasses – something she never expected – make her heart flip and she feels more like a sixteen year-old than a forty year-old. It's pathetic, almost, how he stirs _that_ inside of her. Just a sift of fingers through the thickness of his hair, a subtle flex of the smooth muscles in his arm under his tight fitting plaid shirt. Or the brush of bristles against her skin, little shocks of electricity pulsing through her. Then there's the _heat_. It comes from the stretch of a t-shirt across his toned back. Sometimes it's the obvious way he fills out a pair of jeans.

Mostly it's his lips. Always – unless their singing or eating – a toothpick dangling. He does it on purpose, she's sure. Every time she sees it, she tosses it away, and goes in for a kiss. His tongue slides against hers perfectly. Never forceful, never angry, always slow and languid. His hands – calloused and warm – reveling in her every inch, like, she's something precious, something to be cherished, something he's waited and longed to touch.

It's everything she's never felt and always wanted.

* * *

 ** _my power's turned on/starting right now i'll be strong/i'll play my fight song_**

Cheered as nothing less than a triumphant return to the stage by everyone from Peter Cooper at the Tennessean to Rob Sheffield at Rolling Stone and the talk of Jimmy Fallon to Jimmy Kimmel, there was nothing like being back on stage. The lights felt hot on her skin and her hair was sticking to her face. Her whole body was shaking, but there he was, standing just off to the side and she was grounded, instantly.

"Girl..." Rayna is there, that million dollar smile, stretched from ear to ear. " _That_ ," A tight hug and nothing but praise tumbling from strawberry lips, "Is what I am talkin' about!"

"Uh-uh..." And her cheeks are flushing, not from adrenaline or the heat, but because once upon a time _nothing_ would be able to distract her from the fact that her idol _Rayna Jaymes_ was hugging her. Now, baby blues, are her sole focus. There's a warmth to his smile, lines at the edges of his eyes, appearing and he tips his ball cap, ever so subtle, and her heart does somersaults.

"Told ya so darlin'," Teasing later, his voice low and simmering with heat, like a good bourbon sliding down your throat. "And you were all nerves and shakin' like a leaf. But you didn't miss a beat."

"Cause you were there." Soft and cheeks flush. "Nah, you'd have killed it, without me. It's in here," His palm laying flat against where her heart is. "And that's somethin' nobody can ever take away."

* * *

Sage takes a liking to her instantly. Always chattering about ballet and begging for guitar lessons. Colt is skeptical. His answers are only a word, maybe two or four, if he's talking about Maddie. Sadie doesn't blame him for being skeptical. She tells him so and he tells her, "Rayna really messed up my Dad when she called off the wedding. Don't hurt him by leaving. You ran away once, don't do it again."

She knows the words won't penetrate, that he won't take them to heart like his little sister, but she has to tell him, "I've got nothin' to run from now. Everything I've ever wanted is here."

"We'll see."

It's weeks later, when he has a project for his history class that's due in a month and is half the final grade, that he thaws. They're all around the dinner table and he mentions it, sighing, because he doesn't know _what_ subject to pick because "history's so laaaaaaaame."

"I can help ya out." Sadie offers, warmest smile gracing her posy lips. "My family's farm in Blacksburg goes back all the way to The Civil War. It was only a little skirmish, not like Gettysburg or Appomattox, but graves of both Union and Confederate soldiers are buried there. My Daddy'd be happy to talk your ear off about it. Pictures were taken by Jefferson Stone – his great-great Grand-Pappy – and they've been passed down for generations."

"Your Dad would do that?" A skeptical brow is arched. "He doesn't even know me."

"No, not yet, he doesn't. He wants, to, though – know you, I mean. You, too, Sage," And the little girl's face lights up. "My Mama does, as well. This'll help break the ice, this project. But y'know it's up to you, Colt. I ain't gonna force you or anything."

"He'd _really_ help and he and your Mom really want to _know_ me and my sister?"

"He really would help and they do really want to know you guys."

"That's cool," Playing nonchalant but Luke sees past the blase` facade` and gives Sadie a wink.

* * *

It's a double date thing, him and Sadie, Deacon and Rayna. Obviously it's Rayna's idea. Sadie wouldn't be so bold as to invite the other couple out and the idea of him or Deacon suggesting a double date is laughable. Thankfully she picked a bar that's not downtown where paparazzi lurk and would be salivating for a shot of two of country music's power couples.

Oh, the headlines that would be written. Luke Wheeler and Deacon Claybourne, once romantic rivals for Rayna Jaymes' affections, now plus ones of country music's hottest women. Sadie Stone, the comeback queen, canoodling with country's king. Country's Queen out with old flame's new flame and her old flame now fiancee` plays tag a long.

Instead, no one bothers them. The wine flows for the women, the whiskey burns for the men. There's laughter and jokes. Darts and pool. Slow dancing. And an agreement that they should definitely do this again.

Walking to the car, Luke's mouth goes dry, taking in the view of Sadie from behind as she walks ahead with Rayna. The only time he'd seen her in a dress before was the night of the CMA Awards. He vaguely remembers it was white or maybe cream, but _this_ dress will be etched in his memory. He feels heat flash, deep in his gut, his length stirring and there's her shy voice – from when she came down the stairs and did a little twirl - "is this okay?"

It's a simple black floor length dress; nothing extravagant, but elegant just the same. It's a lot like her, actually, this dress. Teasing but tasteful. Delicious hints but not revealing too much. Leaving him wanting more. The thin straps criss cross at her shoulder blades, going all the way down to the small of her back. There is no bra strap – something he confirmed after her little twirl – and it's a wonder, when they were back inside, he didn't cut the double date thing short.

Her hair's pinned up, a top knot, keeping those chestnut curls at bay and there's all the smooth skin of her neck to make his mouth water. Her bright laughter floats back to him, sending him crashing back to the here and now and Deacon's chuckling next to him. There's an elbow in his ribs and a seriously grave tone breaks the lustful haze, "That gun in your pocket better not be for me, Wheeler."

"Fuck you, Claybourne." Growled through gritted teeth. "Do a brother a solid and tell your woman to _finally_ stop talkin' to mine, like, they don't see each other every dag gum day."

"Nah," Deacon's eyes crinkle at the sides as a shit-eating grin crosses his lips, hands sinking into his pockets. "I think Rayna and Sadie have _a lot_ of catchin' up to do. They haven't talked about Daphne and Sage's Girl Scout campfire thing or the Winter Formal. Or what Rayna should do with her hair..."

"Is this how it's gonna be, man? I visited you in the hospital, and you're gonna pull this shit?"

"Calm down, Wheeler," Deacon rolls his eyes before calling out, "C'mon, Ray, it's not like you won't see Sadie tomorrow."

* * *

 _ **in your heart, in your head/in your arms, in your bed, under your skin**_

 _tell me you want this as much as i do_ is all Luke can think as he swallows Sadie's moan after slamming his lips against hers, the moment they step through the entryway of the house. Pulling back before their tongues can tangle, sage eyes have turned emerald, glimmering with lust and heat, boring into his own heat-filled eyes.

"I want you," Breathless and heady, every syllable going straight to his straining cock, and it takes every ounce of self control not to rip the dress to shreds. But he actually _likes_ the dress and wouldn't mind seeing it again, but right now he wants to see it on the bedroom floor.

They've shared that bed for months now, sometimes, going as far as to feel each other's skin, but never crossing the invisible line, until this moment. They've always pulled away and yes, he's seen her come apart underneath his hand, seen her panting and eyes unfocused with pleasure, but he's never been _inside_ of her. Never felt the velvet heat of her around him. Only felt the smoothness of her hand.

Tonight he wants to feel that velvet heat. Tonight he wants to feel everything.

His knees hit the edge of the bed, that's the next thing he knows, besides the feel of her fingers digging into his bare chest, his shirt having been tossed away at some point. Dry as the desert, but somehow managing to swallow, he licks at his lips, watching – mesmerized – as she gathers the skirt of her dress in her hands and lowers herself onto his crotch. The heat radiating from in between her thighs almost makes him jump, it's so intense. Tugging at the top knot, her chestnut curls fall free, framing her face and as he pushes strands behind her ear, she bends and kisses him again. This kiss is at her pace, slow and measured. Obviously wanting to savor this moment. Her hands run over his arms, feeling those smooth muscles, down the toned skin of his chest, and he lets her.

Luke lets Sadie take her time because he knows, the moment she's on her back, underneath him with nowhere to go, all hell is going to break loose.

But that doesn't stop his hands from resting on her legs. And when he realizes he wants to feel her bare skin, pushing at the offending material of her dress, his hands work their way up from her knees to her waist. Fingers pluck at the waistband of her panties – a very nice lacy black pair – and she responds by pulling back, hands grabbing at the dress and easing it higher and higher. He helps her push it over her head and feels all the air leave his lungs at the sight of her, nearly every inch bare, save for those lacy black panties.

"Goddamn, woman, you're beautiful." Rough and tender, at the same time, heat spiraling through her body, gathering at her aching core.

He hears himself say it, and she is. She is stunning. Her hair's messy – ringlets no longer perfect spirals – from their furious speed, and he wants to make it even messier. Her cheeks are flushed and posy lips – rose red, now – swollen from kissing, and he only wants to make them more so. Her breasts are small but still pert, and he cups one in his hand, a perfect fit for the heft of his palm, rolling the nipple between his fingers and watching, in fascination, as her eyes flutter closed.

She whimpers softly as he presses his other hand at the small of her back, easing her back to him. He shifts her a little higher, purposefully, so he can replace his fingers with his mouth. He swirls his tongue around the hard tip of her nipple until she hisses.

"That what you like darlin'?" He groans against her, releasing the tip.

"Yes..." Nothing more than a breathless pant.

"How 'bout this?" Pinching the tip between his fingers, softly, and then increasing the pressure until her hips buck against his and she's cursing.

"Shit, Luuuuuuuuke," His name stretched to syllables that aren't actually there.

"I'll take that as a yes," Luke's lips curl into a smirk, tweaking the other nipple the same way, before taking it into his mouth.

Luke groans as Sadie's hips roll against him, his cock begging to be let loose. And, fuck, it's like she's turned into a goddamn mind reader as she pulls away from his mouth and lowers her own to his chest. She's nipping and sucking her way down his stomach, taking a detour – briefly – to trace at the tattoo on the inside of his forearm and then her fingers are on his belt, hooking around the waistband of his jeans and boxer briefs, pulling them down in one fluid motion.

"Fuck..." The curse bit out, as he watches her focus on his cock, a pillow now propped behind his head. He groans, loudly, and there's a glint in her eyes – shit-eating, for sure – telling him she's amused as her hand wraps around his length while licking her lips.

"Sadie," Heady and heavy, like, a stone being dropped from his lips as her own wrap around the tip. Her tongue, eagerly, laps at the slit, making him grunt as her hand – a firm fist – works the rest of the length.

"Mmmmm," Is Sadie's only response as she pulls back, only to run her tongue along the underside a second later. Luke thinks his eyes are going to threaten to roll back in his head, as she takes his length a little deeper into her mouth, but he forces them open, taking the chance to look down and finding her watching him.

Letting him go, she smirks and then takes him back in again – a little further each time – and her tongue swirls over the tip every time she pulls back. Her wrist twist over the base expertly as another curse is let go when her hand moves over to his thigh and he's completely engulfed by her mouth. The tip is pressed to the back of her throat and he's almost a goner as she swallows.

"Sadie, fuck..." His hand finds the back of her head, but he doesn't need to apply any pressure. She eases back and without prompting, takes him into her mouth, fully. He could almost cry at the sensation. Her mouth feels as hot as it does when he's kissing her, and the sight of those – now rose-red lips – wrapped around his cock is insane. He can't remember the last time he felt like this, if ever. Her nails – bringing him back to the here and now, and the realization of what's about to happen, if she continues – scraping along his balls, and he knows he's seconds away from coming down her throat, whether she likes it or not, because he won't be able to stop even if she wants him to.

Which isn't what he _wants_. He wants to be wrapped up in everything she is. The beautiful scent of bergamot and vanilla, heavy with her own arousal. The velvet warmth of her pussy clenching around his cock, not just his fingers, like all the times before this.

"Darlin'..." He swallows, thickly, and looking down is a big mistake because she's pure sin, and he doesn't know how much more his heart can take, but he can't come now. Not without being inside of her, finally. There's a lazy kiss against the tip, a teasing lick of her tongue along the slit, and a warm breath against the skin of his thigh, as she looks at him – through dark lashes – emerald eyes heavy with lust, "I can keep going..."

"Baby," New and he laughs, somehow, as her upturned nose crinkles and she shakes her head. "Darlin's better," And, fuck, he'll call her that every day for the rest of their lives as long as he can hear that low throaty pitch, every syllable of the word, wrapped in pure lust.

* * *

 _ **i wanna melt in, i wanna soak through/i only wanna move when you move**_

He's done this before, taste her, but tonight is _different._ Tonight is like he's never explored the very heart of her before. He's felt a damp patch soaking the fabric of a pair of her panties. He's dipped his fingers inside. He's had his lips on her, feeling her throb as she grinds against him, soaking the bristles of his beard, but that won't compare to tonight.

There's his head, dipping, to tease her breasts again. His fingers toying with the edge of the tiny scrap of lace, separating them, and his cock jerks against her inner thigh. "I've been thinkin' about this," That East Texas drawl growling along her pubic bone. "Since you walked down those stairs in that goddamn dress. How _this_ – tasting you – is gonna be different than all the times before. How much sweeter you'll be. How I'll hear that Virginia twang scream for me..."

One finger slips inside of her as he reaches her stomach. Glancing, he notices how dark her eyes have become, nearly black – just a hint of the emerald around her irises – and how flushed her cheeks are already.

"Luke..."

"You're dripping, darlin'..."

"Uh-uh... I know..."

There's a smirk, one that shouldn't add more fuel to her fire, on his face as he sucks the wet finger into his mouth, licking it dry and she doesn't want to, doesn't want that smirk to grow, but she can't stop herself from whimpering at the sight.

He's right there, driving her wild, head thrashing and legs as spread as they can be, inviting him in. His lips are there, at her inner thigh, teasing as he pushes his finger back inside her, easing it in and out, as he moves his mouth closer and closer to where she needs him most.

Spreading her wetness, he uses the same finger to seek out her clit, starting gently as he covers her entrance with his mouth and then he kisses her, slowly. She jerks against him, twisting her hips to angle him just how she needs him. He listens to her every move, and responds to each one, something she's never experienced before. He's making sure he hits the spots she _needs_ , wanting her to get to the brink and fall over the precipice as badly as she does, and it's like living in a whole new world.

Before the first night, he ever touched her, she only knew of Pete. Pete who never cared if she reached competition or if she felt an ounce of pleasure. But Luke wasn't Pete. He wanted her to feel everything he felt, to bring her to more than just the brink, but to have her go beyond.

His mouth has replaced his fingers, and she's brought back to the here and now, as his tongue flicks over the tip of her clit. "Luke," She whimpers again. "Right there..."

He doesn't let up, his fingers, now two of them, slide in and out of her. Every so often, they curl, brushing against her G-Spot, making her curse. His lips are wrapped around her clit, trapping it, so he can focus on the tip with just his tongue.

"FUCK!"

Luke groans, feeling Sadie's pussy clamp down on his fingers, her body starting to twist away. He won't let her, his arm pressing against her waist, holding her down. He groans, feeling his own body shudder, as the gut-wrenching scream she lets out, courses through him as well. Her body is limp as he crawls back up, brushing the hair away from her face, tenderly pushing it behind her ear. He slides a hand to the back of her neck, cradling it, to bring her lips to his, kissing her slow and languid. She moans as she tastes herself on his lips.

Pulling away, he presses his lips to her ear, nibbling briefly before, he husks out, "You're beautiful."

He doesn't let her turn away. "Hey, now, there'll be none of that."

She shakes her head, and won't meet his eyes, but he forces her to look at him. "You're beautiful." He repeats and there's another shake of her head. "I told you there'll be none of that. Now, tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"How beautiful you are."

A statement doesn't leave her kiss-swollen lips, but a question does. "I'm beautiful?"

"Say it, don't ask it," He nudges her legs a little further apart. "I'm beautiful," She gasps as he pushes into her.

"Damn right you are, Sadie," He groans, her tightness consuming his cock. "Fuck, darlin'."

Sadie hisses Luke's name back at him, her legs wrapping around his waist, as he starts to thrust into her. He keeps telling her 'you're beautiful' along with a whole other gamut of words that blur into groans and moans as he continues pushing her toward her release. He bites down on her shoulder blade, tongue laving and sucking, until a red mark is left behind, a memory of tonight that won't fade until late afternoon, maybe – hopefully – it will stay till the next night.

Her body arches and her wraps his arms under her, pulling her upright as he jerks back onto his knees. Gripping her shoulder – the one he marked – with one hand and her ass with the other, he lifts her up and down on his length, feeling her tighten around him.

"Talk to me, Sadie..." Lips sliding along hers, in a sloppy kiss, tongues only briefly touching. "Tell me what you want, what you need... C'mon, darlin..."

"Harder..." Breathless but commanding, and he slams into her with more force as her head rocks back, exposing her neck for his mouth. His hand that's on her shoulder, curls into her hair, holding her there as he keeps pumping into her. Her body tenses and shudders violently.

"Luke!"

Her weight collapses against him, legs sliding from his waist, as her release washes over her. Easing her back onto the bed, he pulls out and flips her over, the elegant slide of her back being revealed. His hands trace every vertebrae of her spine and he bends, teasing lips over her ear, "You okay, darlin'?" while nudging her hips upwards.

Her eyes are hazy and lust filled as she twists to look at him. She's not one for cursing, but she doesn't know how else to express herself in this moment. "Fuck, yes."

A low, rumbling chuckle from his lips as he drops a kiss against the base of her spine, before going back up to her neck, vertebrae by vertebrae and he groans, "That's what I wanna hear," gripping her hips and thrusting deeply.

It's all whimpers and whines beneath him, and every sound is more beautiful than her singing voice. Her hands stretch out for the wrought iron headboard, wrapping around the swooping designs as he pounds into her willing body. It's dirtier than he intended as she hollers from his hand slipping and squeezing the right cheek of her ass, and he _swears_ his cock gets slicker – from her juices – when he tells her, "I wanna feel you come again. I wanna feel your pussy milk me for everything I'm worth again."

And _that's_ what does her in. She's falling apart, a loud drawn out moan of his name, "Luke," signaling her completion as he spills inside of her, not seconds later.

* * *

 _ **i wanna breathe out when you/breathe in then i wanna fade into you**_

They're sticking to each other, both trying to regain their breath, their lungs starving for oxygen. His forehead is, practically, plastered against hers. They're a tangle of limbs, sweat cooling on their heated skin.

"That was everything I've ever wanted," Hushed and barely above a whisper, like, those words shouldn't be spoken aloud, like she's revealing her deepest, darkest secret.

"I'm gonna do my damnedest every night and every day, darlin', to give you everything you've ever wanted." It's not what he wants to say, not even close, because those words are there, i love you, on the tip of his tongue, coating his mouth with their sweetness, but now isn't the time to say them.

It's a little closer than the night they were on her family's porch, but still not the right moment. He'll know when it's right, and he can't wait, because he needs her to know.

* * *

 _ **and for once you let go/of your fears and your ghosts**_

She says _it_ first. Surprising both of them. They're chaperoning Maddie and Colt's Winter Formal. Deacon and Rayna, according to her, deserve a night off. And – as she reminds, teasing him with images from their trip, where it was all bikinis and lingerie and panties were rarely worn – they did just get back from Bora Bora.

"Here's hopin' one these dang kids was smart enough to spike the punch," He grumbles and she slaps him, hard, across the chest. "Stop it," She chides and he chuckles, arm sliding around her waist. "Just a little joke darlin'."

Just as they're about to kiss, Colt's voice cuts through the moment, "Please _don't_."

Luke feigns outrage. "Oh, so you get to go around Winter Wonderland kissin' your girlfriend, but I don't? Are you forgettin' who paid for that corsage you got her? Or better yet who paid for the car that got ya'll here? Cause I'm pretty sure it wasn't..."

Sadie interrupts, giving the teenager a reassuring smile, "Don't worry, I'll keep him in line. Go have fun with Maddie. Oh and," Leaning to whisper in his ear. "Don't forget to tell her how pretty she looks. All the time."

When she straightens, she adjusts his tie and he bats her hands away. "Don't do that. And don't try to fix my hair either, it's fine. Maddie likes it this way."

Holding her hands up in surrender, she laughs, as he walks away, stopping momentarily to shoot them a warning glance before going across the gym where Maddie's sitting at one of the little tables.

She settles into the familiar hold of his hands, breathing in the worn leather, even though he's in a suit jacket and pressed shirt. She giggles, breathlessly, at the feeling of beard bristles scraping across her cheek. Some pop song, she doesn't know, despite Colt blasting his music at ear-splitting levels in the house, warbles through the speakers and they begin to sway. Who started swaying first, she doesn't know, but it feels nice, his weight rocking with hers, grounding her.

"Red," A heady whisper against her ear. "Is _definitely_ your color. I'm goin' to town with Will tomorrow for some promotion, I might stop off somewhere – while he's doin' his thing – to pick you up somethin' nice."

"Somethin' for me," Teasing, as her head tilts backwards, sage meeting, baby blue. "Or somethin' for _you_ that happens to fit me?"

"Darlin'," More teasing as a heavy huff in a fake put-upon sigh leaves his lips. "I told ya, I just don't look good in lace."

She doesn't know why, but as she twists out of his hold, so they're face to face; _something_ sparks inside of her. She's had these words – i _love you –_ on her tongue, waiting to burst forth, for so long and maybe it's the way he's looking at her, like, nothing else exists. Or maybe it's the heat of his palm at the small of her back. How he can't stop touching her, not tonight, but always. He's always reaching for her, wanting to dance around the kitchen when they cook. Grabbing for her waist, giving her ass a passing squeeze if one of them is coming and the other is leaving, anywhere and anyplace.

It could be every night when he's touching her, loving her, never stopping until she is thoroughly pleasured.

It could be the way Sage looks at him with stars in her eyes. Or how Colt – despite being 'cool' – still sees him as his hero. It could be his way with both of them; a strong, steady hand, but so loving and warm. There are movie nights, all of them, piled on the couch. There are horse rides and Mamaw Wheeler mac and cheese nights.

Skyping with her parents.

The necklace around her neck. The tattoo on the inside of his wrist. Her name.

And, they spill forward, finally, "I love you."

* * *

 _note: the soundtrack for this fic is "fight song" by rachel patten, "fade into you" by clare bowen and sam palladio and "you are in love" by taylor swift_


End file.
